The January evening was balmy, cloudless even. Fawkes would have been admiring the stars if it weren't for the thick halo of light pollution from the large motel sign; the neon
VACANCY

giving his white porcelain-like skin a hellish sheen.


The mundane that went by ‘Jairo’ nervously puffed on his fifth cigarette in under an hour. “Man, I don’t know what’s up with this pack,” he hissed, frustrated as he flicked the burning filter into the puddle. “Taste like fucking aluminum.” He couldn’t have been much older than nineteen, with a nice fade haircut and a flashy leather jacket; courtesy of his new blood money. The newest addition to his tattoo sleeve wasn’t even coloured yet.


Fawkes hummed his sympathies, leaning against the warm concrete without so much as a twitch in the glass of his carved lips. Jairo couldn’t see the monstrosity he was dealing with, more focused on the fact that the pimp was several minutes late. He made a point to remind Fawkes on the time every time he browsed his phone, making sure he had sent the proper room number. “I don’t know, this makes me nervous. You sure your guy isn’t ICE?”


Steely eyes click as Fawkes blinks his attention back on the nervous Halcone.


“You hired me,” he stated bluntly. Jairo frowns,


“You were vouched for. I only heard you get up to some nasty shit.” He shifts under Fawkes’ blank stare, eyes trailing on the hunting knife, “You didn’t even bring a gun,” he scoffs, breaking the uncomfortable standoff.


“If you don’t feel safe, I can take the whole cut,” the Elemental offered, no humour in this tone.


“You steal from us, then you can meet a real Sicario.”


Fawkes didn’t offer a response, keeping his eyes trained on the road. A muffled cry came from the room, prompting him to shift out of the way as his ward unlocked the door to snap at the woman in Spanish. An older model F150 with a tarp over the bed slowed at the entrance, flashing lights as it parked several feet away in the nearly empty lot. Fawkes blinked the light of his cell in response. Jairo tensed, locking the door again as he lit another cigarette.


“Steady,” Fawkes warned as he watched the young man’s shaking hand hover over the pistol under his belt. One of the two figures exited the driver’s side. He wasn’t much older than than the Changeling, but the harsh elementals and harsher experiences had aged the Guatemalan beyond his years. Cautiously approaching the pair, he gave his name and Fawkes nodded to Jairo, letting them talk rather than forcing his client’s limited English as he silently patted him down.


Cash was exchanged in an envelope, which was handed to Fawkes to count as Jairo opened the door. At the cry of recognition from their captive, the Halcone had only a second to process that they were known to each other before the metal of the driver’s gun was at the back of his head. White-faced, he looked to Fawkes, who methodically counted out the bills.

The woman ran to the truck without hesitation, shouting between sobs of disbelief to other man as she wrapped her arms around him. At the Elemental’s nod, the misty eyed passenger pulled a bat from under the seat and began to approach them, while the brother confiscated Jairo’s own firearm as he was helplessly nudged into the room by the tap of the barrel.


The noise of torture was muffled behind the door while Fawkes listened to the hums of the glass as they vibrated, separating their portions once he reached the amount going to the Cartel.


“Two hundred and five…”